


The Usual

by calculatingMinutiae



Series: The Ghost of Glimwood Tangle [8]
Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series), Pocket Monsters: Sword & Shield | Pokemon Sword & Shield Versions
Genre: Anxiety Disorder, Gen, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:21:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21789697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calculatingMinutiae/pseuds/calculatingMinutiae
Summary: Allister explores around Stow-on-side.
Series: The Ghost of Glimwood Tangle [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1576204
Comments: 11
Kudos: 111





	The Usual

**Author's Note:**

> Mostly an odd little drabble. Will see if it fits into anything bigger, but not until after finals. 
> 
> It's still Friday the 13 in some time zones so here have some wholesome Allister.

Ah, Stow-on-side, with its cobblestone streets and climbable tin rooftops, and just enough questionable parenting to spark creativity in the young ones. Allister nervously taps the shoulder of a kid with his head stuck in the bell of a bronzing, knowing well that no dare is worth a concussion. He doesn't stick around to see the kid turn around, shrug, and get right back to tempting fate. 

On the right, he waves slightly to the bumbling maractus at the farmer's market, and the family of trainers that try so hard to keep them in line. On the left, a small nod to the old man with too much money on his hands that's convinced that just about _anything_ is secretly obscenely valuable, if it's shiny. He makes a mental note to bring guy some of the tiny mushrooms that grow deep in Glimwood Tangle. They just might actually blow his mind.

Next is the actual antique seller, or at the very least the man who usually sells antiques. Before Allister can raise his head from staring at the scuffs on his shoes, Antique Man greets him. 

" ... Umm. Hi." 

Elegant and eloquent, for a gym leader. He bites the inside of his cheek, embarrassed by his own apprehension, and thanks his lucky stars he has his mask on to hide from prying eyes. 

Antique Man, whom he supposes must have a name that he's simply too shy to ask, smiles as friendly people do. Maybe it's Tom, or Bob. Charles. Reginold-Buckschester the Fourth. Maybe Tim?

The man has almost certainly said something, while Allister has let his mind wander, because when Allister nods idly in acknowledgement the man looks a bit confused. He's pointing to the paper flags strung high between buildings 

"There's one for every person in Stow-on-side. You ought to make your own, if you haven't already," the man repeats, a bit exasperated but only as much as he is with his own children. 

"Sorry," Allister says, picking up on the note of very, very mild contempt. 

Antique Man's expression softens into a fond smile. "'s alright, kid. Or, suppose you're the gym leader now. Congrats, by the way. 's alright, gym leader." 

"T-thanks...." Allister keeps his head up, trying to copy the expression. "... A-ny luck with the bargains today?" 

"Oh, nah. Market for cracked old pots isn't as big as it used to be. I'm afraid."

"A cracked pot?" 

"One of the good ones. From the 1890s, I think. Want a look?"

"... Sure."

He takes one glance at the teapot, not half a moment to pass before he knows that 

"Pretty nice forgery... ."

"What?! _Forgery_? I'd never—"

"It's almost identical, but it hasn't got a seal. Doesn't matter much, 'cept to some of the sinistea. But those lot never say much good of anybody, ought to recognize a good pot when they see one."

"… Huh. Sharp eyes, kiddo. So you really can talk to ghosts, can't y—"

Antique Man blinks, and Allister has disappeared.

Just past an old caved-in sheet of aluminum siding lay the best spot to jump up onto the rooftops. The wind whistles softly, up there, spinning weather vanes with the cool sea breeze from the northwest. It's all the better to see the stars, at this height, so close to society at large and yet secreted away into a forgotten corner where it's safe to huddle for the night. It's quiet, up here. 

At least, most nights. 

During the day, there's the constant chatter of the busy square below, a little bigger than he can remember it being, though it's still only such a small town. Adults clamor at the antique stand or gush about ancient history up by the mural, and the children play with a few of the local pokemon to bade away the late-summer's heat. If you listen closely enough, you can hear the diglett. _Conspiring_ , so Allister is led to conclude. He's asked the yamask what they talk about all day, huddled in little groups of two or three in corners untouched by the sun, but the little specters either don't know or aren't willing to sell out their fellow patrons of the underground. 

Needless to say, when he'd come to hear about the desecration of the famous Stow-on-side mural, the city's own gym leader would not be surprised. Disappointed, maybe, but not surprised. _Fewer tourists mucking up the place is pretty ace, at least._

He closes his eyes, feet dangling over the side of the roof, idly swinging above a chasm between the surrounding cliffs. He has no fear of falling just as he has no fear of flying away; there are plenty of things to fear, here, but nature hasn't been one of them. The local spirits— by which he means the yamask, the driftblim, the corsola, even the occasional ghastly that blows in on the trade winds— are all at relative peace. It's nice, and it is quiet. 

Save the fluttering of colorful flags with the breeze, but he can hardly fault them for that. Maybe, _just maybe_ , he ought to add his own, one of these nights. Stow-on-side is starting to feel like home. 


End file.
